The Therapist's Couch
by aaserene
Summary: Agent Sands is this therapist's problem patient. Chap 4 up- the party begins
1. The Problem Patient

The Therapist's Couch

            I have recently watched Once Upon a Time in Mexico and found Sands really funny, so I came up with this idea. I hope you enjoy.

Chapter 1: The Problem Patient

            Summary:         This is a comedy about Agent Sands recovering from his case in Mexico. Take one insecure counselor and one psychotic member of the CIA and stir.

            Rating:              PG-13

            Warning:           Swearing.

            Disclaimer:        I don't own Agent Sands but I do own Dr. Sanderson.

            One year after Agent Sands' action packed little trip to Mexico, he was sitting on the couch of Dr. J. T. Sanderson, in an impressive looking building on 52nd and 8th. Dr Sanderson was one of the country's finest therapists; Sands had been referred to him by the CIA after the loss of his eyes gave the special agent a couple of unfortunate traits. Dr Sanderson had managed to make some headway with Sands' new obsession with rubber gloves (not cotton lined), but was at a loss about the man's refusal to wash his hair. The mysterious eye-twitch was also very worrying, and something which he had never before seen in somebody with no eyes. Most disturbing of all was the Sands' insistence on shooting anybody carrying a guitar and/or small dog, and he was completely at a loss. Nervously, he watched the agent's hands explore his gun, as if he was preparing to use it.

            "Would… would you like to talk about it?" Dr Sanderson asked for the twenty-seventh time that month. Yes, he was counting. It helped to have something to focus on.

            "No I would not," replied Sands. "What I would like is for you to tell me again what exactly my employers are paying you for. Are they under the impression that you are some sort of counselor?"

            "Yes, maybe," replied the doctor wistfully. He yearned for the times when he could have fully grown men in floods of tears after one session, crying about how they had never felt loved by their mother/guinea pig/transsexual S&M partner (tick as preferred). Those were the days…

            Suddenly, the polyphonic ring of a cell phone startled him out of his reverie. Sands tutted, before unzipping his flies and pulling out his phone. Dr Sanderson did not bat an eyelid, for nothing about this man could surprise him anymore.

            "Who the hell is this?!" Sands roared into the mouthpiece. "Yeah?! Well you can stick it up your ass!! I don't care… UP YOURS!!!" Slamming the phone onto the nearby coffee table and giving it several whacks with the barrel of his gun, he cursed at the top of his voice. "STUPID!! ASSHOLE!! MOTHER-F-"

            "Who was that?" Dr Sanderson interjected eagerly. "An ex-girlfriend? An estranged wife? A highly camp but heartbreakingly gorgeous boyfriend?" Perhaps it was not too late to make Sands cry after all!

            "My anger management counselor."

            "Oh. You're seeing somebody else?" The doctor felt more betrayed than he had ever been in his life. "How long has this been going on?"

            "Oh, I only saw him a coupla times. It meant nothing. It was only about my rage."

            "Aha. And was he… was he better than me?"

            "No! I'm sorry, I swear, it was just that the receptionist mentioned him when I was on the way out the other week, and… you know… it was new and exciting."

            "Hang on… he works in this building?!"

            "I'm so sorry, doctor, I-"

            "Just tell me one thing… did you see him in this room?"

            "Yes. I'm sorry."

            "You did it on my couch?!" Sands said nothing. Dr Sanderson bit his lip to prevent the tears, which he knew would be so undignified. "Just go!" He choked. "I just need to not be around you at the moment."

            "Ok. I'll call you, doc," Sands said quietly, as he felt his way to the door.

            Dr Sanderson's next meeting with Agent Sands was scheduled for the following Wednesday. True to society's expectations of a man snubbed, he had gotten drunk and ended up with a total stranger on the couch. He learned during the wild and carefree drunken counseling session that the patient's name was Mark Marsters and that he had a very severe case of commitment phobia/ obsessive compulsive disorder and/or intimacy issues (tick as preferred). Come Wednesday, the doctor had made an attempt at playing hard to get. He put on his best suit, polished his shoes and styled his hair, all the while practicing his derogatory sneer and I-don't-give-a-rat's-ass-that-you-betrayed-me-because-I'm-so-totally-over-you-and-can-barely-remember-your-name-let-alone-your-phone-number-and-by-the-way-that-drunk-sounding-guy-calling-your-crotch-dwelling-cell-phone-at-four-in-the-morning-was-not-me-it-was-my-identical-sounding-twin blank expression, all the while, of course, forgetting that Sands was blind.

            As the black-attired agent swaggered casually into his office, the doctor's resolve melted. Sands was just so appealingly challenging, and Dr Sanderson liked a challenge. Clearing his throat and self consciously rearranging some of the papers on his cluttered desk, he watched Sands slump unceremoniously onto the couch. _He thinks he can just waltz back in here after he did the dirty on me…_ thought Dr Sanderson, but he remembered that he was over that. He was going to be aloof, he decided.

            "Well, Agent Sands," he started, shrilly, knocking the documents off his desk as he stood up. "I've decided to take a new direction with this therapy, get you cured once and for all."

            "Are you alright?" Sands asked. "You're sounding particularly anal today."'       "I'm fine!" Dr Sanderson squeaked. "Now then. How many suggestions have I made to you over the many months we've spent together?"

            "Ten months. And which suggestions do you mean? The ones where you actually sounded like you knew what you were talking about or the ones where you actually sounded like you were talking outta your ass?"

            "Both."

            "The number of suggestions you made where you actually sounded like you knew what you were talking about is zero, and the rest- maybe thirteen, including taking the time to be thankful for the trees, cutting all wheat out of my diet and taking a short break."

            "Hey!" Dr Sanderson was indignant. "Taking a short break is a legitimate solution to an internal struggle! It says so in my beginner's handbook, I'll show ya!"

            "It is clearly defined as a solution to a love or personal related matter. Then after the person has spent their requisite two weeks in the country or mountains or small tribal village just off the banks of the Mississippi, he or she will be fetched back home by a formerly little-noticed but wise acquaintance who will kindly inform them that running away does not solve anything."

            "I see," the doctor answered. "So it would seem that you think you know everything."

            "Not everything. Just quite a lot of stuff. So what was this new direction you were talking about?"

            "Well I'm not going to tell you if you're just going to sniff at it," replied Dr Sanderson, knocked off course.

            "Aw, come on, doctor…" Sands tempted. "You know you want to…"

            "Well… ok then. My theory is that you still have so much emotion inside you that you haven't dealt with. I think what you need to do is bring those emotions to the surface, face them and conquer your inner-"

            "Ok, ok, get to the point!"

            "I think… you should have a party!"

            "Oh boy," Sands sighed. "What _would_ I do without you?"

            "Hear me out! I think you should have a party and invite everybody involved in your Mexican adventure!"

            "Hey, you know what? That _is_ a good idea!" Sands exclaimed, his voice awash with sarcasm. "I could invite El Mariachi, the guy who prides himself in his solitude and being oh so mysterious, Agent Ajedrez, the chick who tried to kill me- oh, hang on a minute, she's dead- Lorenzo and his fellow guitar-playing buddy, the little boy selling chewing gum- or chicle chico, as I like to call him-"

            "Yes!"

            "Take a walk."

            Agent Sands left the doctor that week with the same feeling of annoyance as ever. The irritating thing was that Dr Sanderson pestered him with calls for the next few days. He really seemed to think that this new approach of his would work. Maybe he was trying to get rid of him, thought Sands, offended. He knew he shouldn't have told the counselor about his anger management specialist, but he wasn't thinking clearly at the time. After the one-hundred-and-eighty-seventh phone call, Sands finally decided to throw the party just to get the doctor off his back. Dr Sanderson had promised to get in touch with all the invitees himself, and told Sands to take it easy, buy canapés and wine and hang balloons up. In a clear example of his own personality, he had told the doctor to do something unspeakable with the canapés, but made no further objections.

            Please review and look out for the next chapter, which I will be posting up soon!


	2. Therapist or Party Planner?

The Therapist's Couch

Thanks for the reviews!!

I'm reposting this chapter, 'cos I have to get rid of the review responses (I think they qualify as keyboard dialogue. FF rules can be stupid sometimes).

Chapter 2: Therapist or Party Planner?

"So, who have you got for this so-called party?" Sands asked the doctor.

"Well," he began enthusiastically. "I have managed to get the El Mariachi!"

"Not the, just el."

"What?"

"The El Mariachi means the the mariachi."

"Well okay then, I have got EL Mariachi for you!"

"God. How did that happen?"

"I'll tell you." Sanderson was rather proud of his amateur detective work. "It turns out the guy has reached a new level with his guitars. Some talent agent discovered him and he made a couple of albums. They were huge in Europe. A sort of traditional Mexican style-y thing. But then he got bored of that and just started this new design of instrument. A couple of big companies picked up on it and they went stellar. So I made a couple of calls and tracked down the guy's office number. He was running some kind of big production operation and said he needed to take a break anyway. I offered your money for his flight but he spat down the phone at me. Said something about stowing away in a double bass case or something. But anyway, he's coming!"

"God help us."

"And I'm getting to work on the others. So, you made a start on the preparations?"

"No."

"Well, how about deciding what to eat?"

"How about I tell you what you can kiss?"

"Come on Agent Sands, work with me for once?" Dr Sanderson pleaded. Sands sighed deeply, then agreed.

"Alright. I'll have to remember what those guys like, though. So that I can buy the exact opposite."

"That's the spirit! And what about the décor? I was thinking maybe traditional Mexican, lots of earthy shades? I hear it creates a very warm, cozy atmosphere!"

"Fuck off. I'll put up a banner if I can be bothered. Can't promise it'll say anything relevant though."

"Good, good. And the music? Mexican, again? Guitars?"

"Hardcore rock. I'm thinking Adam Ant, Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten."

"Sounds great!"

The next week, Dr Sanderson had some more good news for the agent. He had managed to track down the little boy selling chewing gum and persuaded his mother to allow her son to attend the party.

"It turns out I used to be friends with his mom's cousin's neighbour's son's best friend's girlfriend's step dad's sister's husband's colleague's former pimp!"

"Fancy that."

"I know! And I spoke to the kid's mom on the phone; she seemed happy to let him go if he bought back some cherries on sticks. I don't know, maybe I didn't understand the Spanish properly or something."

"Yes, that's the thing about chicle chico," Sands interrupted. "Never speaks a word of English, but yet seems to understand it perfectly. Maybe it runs in the family. What else did his mom say?"

"She spoke really fast. She said a few things which I haven't been able to look up yet. Said I had 'cabeza de mierde'. Any idea what it means?"

"Yes, it means she said you're a shit-head. Couldn't agree more. What else did she say?"

"Well we arranged his flight. You're paying, by the way."

"I'm _what_?"

"Don't worry, it's one of those cheap-y flights," Sanderson explained. "He'll get on the plane at Mexico City, then change at Madrid, Edinburgh, Manchester, Chile, Mexico City, Paris, Canberra, London, Alabama then arrive in New York about a week later!"

"Well, if he has to change at Mexico City, can't he just skip the first five and start there?"

"Uh- yeah, if you want it to cost an extra four bucks! Chuh!"

"Ok, ok," Sands said, trying to see the logic in this, "so how much is it gonna cost me?"

"$12."

"Oh, I guess that's not so bad."

"No. So, have you thought about how much the entire party is gonna cost? 'Cos you know you need to plan these things."

"Yeah. Well, I'm gonna budget myself about $19 for the food, then the banner can be about $2.50 if I get it on sale. Drink- gosh, I'm gonna need about forty bucks worth for me. The others can bring their own or go without. So all in all that's-" Sands counted on his fingers "-around $80. That's way too much! I'll have to cancel."

"No! No, you can't cancel… I'll chip in for half."

"Why are you so keen for me to have this party?" Asked Sands suspiciously. "D'you want to get rid of me?"

"No!" Dr. Sanderson protested hastily. "Well… the thing is… ok. I'll tell you the truth. It's just that… you see…"

"What do I see?!"

"I just haven't been to a party in so long!"

"Wait a minute!" Sands exclaimed, almost laughing. "You think you are coming to my, _my _party?!"

"I have arranged practically the whole thing so far!" Dr Sanderson retorted, hurt. "The least you could do is invite me to say thank you!"

"Maybe…" Sands wheedled, picking up an item from the table to fiddle with casually. He did not know that the item he was holding was a purple model of a penis, as Sanderson was also (ironically enough) a sex therapist. "But what's in it for me?"

"Do you ever do anything that doesn't involve back payment?" Sighed the doctor.

"No. Is this what I think it is?"

"Yes."

"Agh!" Sands cried, throwing the model back onto the table and wiping his fingers on his shirt. "But what I was thinking, doctor, is that perhaps you'd like to help me out with the supplies. I mean, we're all friends, right? And friendship is the boat that never sinks? Um… all you need is friends? No-one told you life was gonna be this way, your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's DOA?"

"I'm your friend?" Sanderson was so touched.

"Of course! So, if you buy all the food and drink, you can come to my party! After all… urm… a friend always buys stuff for another friend's party!"

It wasn't until Dr Sanderson returned to his apartment that he began to wonder whether Sands was only using him. Nevertheless, he still wanted to impress him, and went out immediately to an expensive food court. He bought some bottles of champagne and tequila, and put in orders for chorizos, pinchaza, queso, patatas fritas and several other over priced American foods renamed in Spanish to make them sound cultural. After spending way too much, he was forced to go without lunch for many days. However, he convinced himself that this was a good thing, as it gave him more time to chase up Sands' Mexican acquaintances.

A particularly surprising conversation with Lorenzo revealed that Agent Ajedrez had not in fact died. At the time of being shot, she was halfway through a series of operations to make her some kind of superhuman or robot. It turned out that a mad scientist (similar to the ones seen in movies and TV shows such as Superman, Spiderman, Flubber, etc.) had decided she had just the right look to become the mother of his über-race of people. Sands was not surprised. He should have expected something like that from her.

After a couple of weeks Dr Sanderson had managed to put together a list of enough people to constitute some sort of a party. Unfortunately, Sands had not even met some of the people, but Sanderson was sure it would work out ok. The guest list was as follows;

El Mariachi

Lorenzo and his new girlfriend

His buddy

Agent Ajedrez

The buddy of the chef whom Sands shot

A random festival goer

A taxi driver

Chicle Chico

Billy Chambers

Sands was not amused.

"Did I not tell you that Ajedrez _tried to kill me_?!" He yelled at his therapist.

"Yes well," Sanderson countered, "you also tried to kill her, so I think you're quits."

"She's a _cow_."

"Now, now. There's no need for unnecessary aggression, remember? Go to your happy place-"

"I don't care. And the rest of the list is stupid. What the hell am I supposed to talk to them about?!"

"Well, why don't we make that your goal for next week? Try to think of some conversation starters for your friends." Dr Sanderson knew he sounded condescending and it made him feel powerful. Sands, however, was not happy at his tone. Reaching into his pants, he pulled out his gun and waved it at the doctor's direction.

"Say that again, asshole!" He yelled.

"Ok, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Dr Sanderson apologized hastily. Then he became distracted as Sands replaced the gun and zipped up his flies. "Hang on… you keep your gun _and _your cell phone down there?"

"Yes. What's your point?"

"Well, I'm just surprised you have enough room… there must be a lack of other things…"

"Shut up!" Sands shouted again, making to take the gun out, but Sanderson deferred, saying he was only joking. Sands let him off with a warning.

Thank you for reading, please review now!!


	3. Retail Therapy

Thank you to everybody who reviewed, I'm glad you like the story!

Summary of chapter- Basically a trip to the shops, with some quality time between Sands and Sanderson (everybody say 'aaw'.)

Rating- PG-13

Warning- Nada. This one's benign.

Disclaimer- I do not own any of the following: Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Sands, the CIA, my sanity or a single penny.

A/N: I am English and I've never been to New York, so please forgive me and suspend disbelief at anything I get wrong, like prices.

Retail Therapy

Despite having apologised for his implications about the size of Sands' manhood, Dr Sanderson could not help feeling that his patient was being a little short with him during their next session together.

"So, I've got good news," the doctor offered enthusiastically.

"Nenh."

"Don't you want to hear it?"

"Szs."

"It's about the guest list!"

"Tv."

"I've got more people to come. Yay!" He added as an after thought.

"F."

"Is it me, or is the number of letters in your words decreasing every time you speak?"

Silence.

"I guess I'm right then. Hey, do you want tell me what the matter is? Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, eagerly delivering his most over-used phrase. Sands just fidgeted with his hair and sulked. Dr Sanderson sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I insulted you. It was wrong of me and… sorry."

"Double sorry?"

"Yes, double sorry. Alright?" Sands squirmed for a minute before smiling.

"Ok."

"So, d'you want to know who's coming?"

"Not really," replied Sands, sounding bored and reverting to his usual attitude.

"Well, everybody on the guest list- except Billy Chambers." Dr Sanderson waited a moment for Sands to ask why, but no question came. "Because he's dead." No reply. "You could have told me."

"Ah, it's what I'm paying you for."

"Actually, you're not paying me. Although, since you bring that up, I received a letter from the CIA this morning."

"I didn't bring it up," Sands retorted, but his therapist wasn't listening.

"I received an urgent message from the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA contacted me a few hours ago. Hark! I have an important notice from the Central Intelligence Agency, so listen up! I received word from the CIA in the early hou-"

"Stop it!" Cried Sands, a little disturbed and annoyed. "What did they say?"

"They contacted me," Dr Sanderson began, speaking in a gravely voice and sitting up straight. "In reference to your treatment here at my HQ. It is grave news; funds will no longer be supplied to treat Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. His placement here will be terminated at the end of next month."

"Hallelujah!"

"No further funds will be available from the Central Intelligence Agency for the psychiatric evaluation and/or treatment of Agent Sands," the doctor finished, saluting thin air. "Dismissed."

"Hey, man, I think you're going through an identity crisis," Sands told him calmly, and relaxing considerably.

"Hey! Watch it. I'm the shrink here."

"Sorry, Doc. But you know something? You've really come out of our shell during this last session.

"What did I just say?"

-----

Due to Sands' blindness, he was unable to visit the shops alone for the purpose of buying supplies for the party. To his consternation, Dr Sanderson happily volunteered to accompany him, and refused to take 'no' for an answer.

"But it'd be on my own time," Sands had whined. "You're not supposed to be 'personally involved'."

"I would be ashamed if I could not say that I dedicated my time and effort to the treatment of my patients," the doctor had solemnly declared.

Therefore, on Saturday morning, Dr Sanderson arrived at Sands' house at ten o' clock sharp. Sands lived in a bungalow in a neighbourhood on the outskirts of town, where the grass was bright green all year round and melodious bird calls harmonized with each other from the different blossom covered trees. The doctor found it pleasant to drive through, but he wondered what a bitter sociopath like Agent Sands was doing there. After a short, scenic drive, he found his patient's address. The bungalow was light blue with white window frames and a white front door, which was broken up by panes of frosted glass. Smiling at the pretty little house, Dr Sanderson walked through the front garden via a narrow, flagstone path. The house was practically buried in the snapdragons and cornflowers which bordered its perimeter, and the scent diffused into the air all around.

Relaxed by the peaceful atmosphere, the doctor rapped on the door, which was promptly opened by the agent.

"Good morning, Agent Sands," Dr Sanderson greeted cheerfully.

"Oh God. Don't tell me it got to you too," replied his patient in alarm.

"What got to me?"

"Come in, come in," Sands hissed, pulling his startled doctor inside the door, before firmly shutting it.

Without saying a word, he beckoned him through the narrow hallway, feeling his way from the walls. Dr Sanderson spent the short journey taking in Sands' appearance; he was oddly dressed in black shorts and a white T-Shirt emblazoned with the words 'FBI- Female Body Inspector', which he accessorised with purple socks.

"Come through," Sands gestured, indicating for his doctor to enter the small living room.

"How pretty!" Sanderson exclaimed, doing as he was bid and admiring the pink and white room with sweet velveteen furnishings.

"That's just what they want you to think," his patient muttered darkly, sitting down on a soft couch. Sanderson joined him. "There's something you need to know about this place.

"It was built only a few years ago, by a man named Armand Cole. This Cole guy was a bit… well, he was _weird_. Optimistic is a word you could use. Anyway, he wanted to make a perfect village complete with flowers and birds and pastel coloured houses, and he did so, as you've just seen. However, what Armand didn't know was that at the time a certain government agency, whose name I can't reveal, was looking for a new way of observing the activities of the public. And then they found this place. So perfect nobody would ever suspect that they were being watched twenty four hours a day. They have hidden cameras everywhere: inside the TV- which, fortunately, I don't use-, in all the rooms, hidden in the trees… that's why the CIA decided to place me here. So they could keep an eye on me at all times."

"Hmmm…" Dr Sanderson replied, not knowing exactly what to say. "Remind me to review paranoia with you during our next session."

Sands threw a curse in his direction and pulled on his boots. Escorting the therapist from the room and out of the front door, he tentatively crept along to the gravel driveway before allowing Dr. Sanderson to open the passenger door of the car for him. When they were both in, he exhaled.

"So… have you lived here long?" The doctor asked, unsure about making conversation with his patient outside the hours of therapy.

"Don't ask me to talk about this place," Sands hissed. "Let's just wait until we get out of the area before saying anything… you never know who might be listening."

Dr Sanderson waited until they had passed the sign that read '_Please come again!_' before speaking again. "Are you excited about our shopping trip?"

"Do me a favour."

"I mean, how long is it since you've been to the shops?"

"Ages. And I prefer it that way. So shut up."

Unable to think of any more cheery things to say, Dr Sanderson shut up and the rest of the journey was spent in silence. Finally, they arrived at the shops. The doctor headed eagerly for the food hall of a large mall, dragging the reluctant Sands along behind him. The agent loitered alongside his therapist, while the latter selected various Hispanic cuisine and threw it into a cart. Sands only became enthusiastic when they reached the liquor.

"More tequila," he urged, "more vodka."

"Vodka is not Mexican, it's Russian," said Dr Sanderson sternly, replacing the bottle on the shelf.

As soon as he had begun to move on, Sands sneaked what he thought was the vodka back into the cart. Unfortunately, it was actually a bottle of crème de menthe.

Dr Sanderson dropped Sands off at a giftware store while he went off to buy a new outfit. He left him with a bright, perky assistant, giving her an order to help him buy some cheerful party decorations.

"So, what kind of party are you having?" She asked, beaming. He could _hear_ her smile, she sounded like she was speaking through her teeth.

"Look, cut the crap, ok? Just give me the cheapest banner you have."

"Well… we do make a _very_ attractive 'Golden Wedding Anniversary' banner which is on sale at the moment-"

"Great, I'll take two."

"But are you throwing a party for a couple who're celebrating their fiftieth anniversary together?"

"Sure."

"Then you could really do with these _beautiful_ balloons, they would make the perfect-"

"Fine, how much is that?"

"All together that's $15, but we also do party poppers, silly string, streamers-"

"Enough!" Sands barked. "I'm only throwing this party to get my psychiatrist and my anger management counsellor off of my back!"

"Ok!" Squeaked the girl nervously, her eyes widening in alarm. "I'll-er-just put these in a bag for you… sir…"

Soon after the sales assistant made the excuse to run off as quickly as possible, Dr Sanderson returned to the shop to collect his patient.

"Did you buy something nice?" He asked, noting the green plastic carrier bag.

"I bought something," replied Sands. "It may not be nice but it was cheap."

"That's nice," remarked the doctor idly, as he escorted Sands back to his car.

-----

Please be _nice_ and review this chapter (I'm smiling in a beseeching way!)


	4. It's My Party And I'll Not Cry If I Don'...

Wow- It really has been ages since I've updated any of my fics. Writer's block, too much school work, too busy planning world domination, etc, etc. But I've got back in the loop and here is my latest offering- enjoy!

Summary- La fiesta empieza!

Rating- PG-13

Warning- Crazy

Disclaimer- No I don't own the movie, or the characters, although I wish I owned Sands, Lorenzo and Fideo. A girl can dream.

Part One- It's My Party and I'll Not Cry if I Want To

The day of the party had arrived, and Sands' living room was adorned with balloons, streamers (courtesy of the eager doctor) and two banners wishing the guests a happy Golden Wedding Anniversary. The agent himself was fast asleep on the couch, wearing a pair of earplugs and stylish green sweat pants. Dr Sanderson was slaving over a hot stove (well, a microwave) to produce delicious delicacies native to Mexico (although he doubted that "Chickeno-Friedo" and "Burgero-con-fryos" were actually Mexican dishes.)

Eventually, as the doctor was placing the last dish of salsa on the coffee table, he heard Sands stir. He was awake. Finally. Suddenly, though, Dr Sanderson felt a wave of excitement. He sat down quickly, looking at the only just woken man. He was at ease, relaxed… Sands was lying on a couch, vulnerable, he was sitting in a comfortable chair, in control… a familiar situation!

"Would you like to talk about it?" He asked Sands, enjoying the feeling of his most over-used words.

"Hmm?"

"Would. You. Like. To. Talk. About. It?"

"What are you on, Doc?" Asked the sleepy Sands.

"Nothing," answered the doctor, put out. "Just wondered… if you would like to talk about how you're feeling."

"How I'm feeling? Ok then."

"Yes!" Blurted out Dr Sanderson, unable to stop himself.

"How I'm feeling… pretty hungry, actually. Would you pass me a dish of crackers or chips or something?"

Disappointed, the doctor passed his patient a platter of tortilla chips. "Anything else?" He asked hopefully. If only he could get a single tear out of the guy!

"No."

After a few minutes of awkward silence (or at least the doctor thought it was awkward- Sands didn't particularly notice or care), Sands decided to get dressed in preparation for his guests. Dr Sanderson was pleased- at least his patient was beginning to make an effort. That was, until Sands returned wearing worn black pants and a T-shirt reading 'why did the Mexican push his wife off the cliff? Tequila!", with a shiny cartoon of a drunk, jolly Mexican wearing a sombrero.

"Is that entirely appropriate?" Asked the psychiatrist sternly, in the manner of a school teacher.

"Don't know what you're talking about, Doc," replied Sands over- casually. "After all- I can't see what I'm wearing. Besides, there isn't time to change; my guests will be arriving soon, won't they?"

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Sands ignored it and went back to his bowl of chips. Dr Sanderson sighed, and went to answer the door. Upon opening it, he found himself looking at not a person, but a very large, battered double- bass case. It was without a doubt the most enigmatic case of any string instrument that he had ever come across but, nevertheless, it was still a double-bass case. Looking to either side, the doctor scratched his head, puzzled.

"Hello?" He called.

As if in answer, the case began to rock slightly. After what seemed like an internal struggle, the lid burst open, and a tall, long haired man climbed out. He cast a couple of wary glances around him, before reaching back into the case and pulling out a dark haired, curvy woman, who clung to his arm. After a further delve in the case, he pulled out a guitar and a bottle of Chilean wine.

"Hola," he whispered, huskily. Dr Sanderson looked at him in astonishment.

"How- how di- how did you- ?" He stuttered. Surely the case wasn't _big _enough to carry a full grown man, a buxom seňorita, a guitar and a bottle of vino?

"Is this the place of the fiesta?" Asked the man in the same husky undertone.

"Yes," Sanderson found himself whispering back. "And you are..?"

"My friends call me 'The Man With No Name'. You may call me El."

"Well… thank you, El. Please come in."

The doctor led El quickly into the living room to join the uninterested agent. El clasped his girlfriend to his side and cast more suspicious glances around the room. Cautiously, he took a burrito and bit into it, chewing slowly. He nodded to show that it was safe, and he and the girl began to pick at the snacks.

"Sands," he whispered warily to the agent.

"Hmm?"

"You and I have some unfinished business?"

"Ummm… I don't think so, buddy."

"Just making sure. I got unfinished business with a lot of people… sometimes hard to keep track of who."

"Why don'tcha make a list?"

Sanderson watched the exchange, a slow smile spreading itself onto his face. His patient was bonding, bonding with people his own age. He was proud.

"What are you smiling at?" Demanded El of the grinning doctor. "Could you get me some paper and a pen?"

"Ah… sure," answered Dr. Sanderson quickly, still a little scared of the guy. He took an orange Bic and a small notepad from his inside pocket and handed them to El.

"Gracias," he muttered, beginning to mumble to himself.

As Sands snacked on a taco and El scribbled away on the pad, Dr Sanderson nervously perched on the arm of a chair. He was watched closely by El's girl, at whom he flashed a self-conscious smile. She tossed her head and stared at him from under her heavy eyelashes. The sound of the doorbell startled the doctor so much he fell off the arm of the chair. Standing up quickly, he hurriedly excused himself to answer it.

"Bienvenido a la casa de Seňor Sands!" He welcomed, opening the door.

"Yeah, yeah," replied the strong, tanned looking girl, pushing past him. "Where is he?"

"Who, Sands?"

"Yeah, that asshole who tried to kill me."

She walked into the den, hands on her hips, surveying the room. El Mariachi stopped his scribbling and stood up, squaring his shoulders, his right hand involuntarily touching his gun holster.

"Save it, Music Man," she told him.

"Well, well, well," Sands piped up, picking up on the voice of the woman. "Hey there, sugarbutt. Guess you couldn't stay away."

"Guess I couldn't."

"Can't blame you. There was always something about me that you never could resist."

"Yeah. The desire to plant a bullet between your eyes!"

"I think it was a different kind of desire, baby…"

"Dream on!"

This fiery exchange over, Ajedrez sat down on an armchair and accepted an olive from the dish Sanderson was proffering to her. The room lapsed into a semi-comfortable silence as the guests snacked and traded glares. The doorbell rang a few minutes later, and Sanderson answered it, yet again. There stood two Mexican guys and a girl, all slightly hammered and dressed casually.

"Hi, we're here for the party," said the tallest guy. "I'm Lorenzo. That's Fideo, and this is Juana."

"Come in, come in," Sanderson hustled. "The party is through here. We're already joined by Agent Ajedrez of the-"

"Buddy!" Exclaimed Lorenzo, catching sight of El Mariachi.

A flurry of introductions and greetings were made, before the three new arrivals seated themselves. Fideo, the guy with a slightly unkempt hairstyle grabbed himself an assortment of liquor from the table, then pulled a bottle of tequila from his own pocket. A friendly conversation ensued, spoken in Spanglish and mostly between El, Lorenzo and Fideo, with the occasional catty comment thrown in by Sands.

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Think I'll leave it there for now. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and sorry about the wait!


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